


Tough Guy

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No COVID, Anakin Says Fuck A Lot, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Angst, Awkwardness, Blood, Canadian Slang, Caregiving, Concussions, Corny, F/M, Fighting, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Hockey, Hockey Fights, Hockey Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Men's Hockey, Reader-Insert, Romance, Semi-Pro Hockey, Showers, Swearing, Tim Horton's, Vomit, Wholesome, injuries, self indulgent, timbits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: Anakin Skywalker is an enforcer, playing on the fourth forward line of your local, semi-professional hockey team. He's fairly young, but he's also been punched in the face a lot; as a result, he's seen better days.He's still your favourite player, though, and you attend every single one of his home games in the interest of cheering him on as he knocks other guys' teeth clear out of their heads.One night, he suffers a particularly brutal beating... and after watching him skate unsteadily off the ice covered in blood, you think you've seen the last of him for a while.Fortunately for the both of you, you couldn't be more wrong.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Reader
Comments: 54
Kudos: 63





	Tough Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if you don't like hockey. It's pretty much the best sport ever, though.
> 
> Personally, I absolutely love this story... but it's also really only here because I feel an irrepressible urge to write out (and apparently share) my own cheesey daydreams. :) It burns fairly slow for a one-shot, and I truly don't expect anybody to like it as much as I do. If you do enjoy it, though... well, I guess I think you're kinda cool. ❤️
> 
> For your convenience:
> 
> Tim Horton's/Timmies = A coffee place  
> Timbits = Doughnut holes, as sold at Timmies  
> Goof = Something you shouldn't call anybody unless you're craving an ass-kicking  
> Enforcer = A hockey player you don't fuck with  
> Loonie = One dollar coin  
> Double-double = Two cream & two sugar in a coffee  
> Eh = Eh

"Kill him! _Fucking kill him!_ Who does that fuckhead think he is?!"

Your popcorn was scattered on the floor in front of where you'd been sitting, and you were pounding the glass mercilessly with your fists. You'd risen to your feet after some asshole on the opposing squad had slammed one of your team's smaller players into the boards; it had been a terribly dirty hit, and the linesman hadn't said or done a thing about it.

"Come on, Anakin! He's a fucking piece of shit! _Don't let him get away with his crap!"_

Normally you wouldn't have attended hockey by yourself, but tonight's game happened to be on a weeknight, and none of your friends had been able to come. You, however, weren't about to miss an opportunity to see your favourite player; not even if it meant you'd be exhausted at work the next the morning. A bit of grogginess was a small price to pay for getting to see Anakin Skywalker do his thing.

His 'thing', of course, was fighting.

"That's right!" you shouted in the direction of the goon who'd thrown that filthy hit. "You're in for it now, you motherfucker!"

Anakin had already dropped his gloves; they were laying on the ice next to his stick as he skated up to his target. You loved sitting right by the glass; not only because you could see the game's action in detail, but because you could sometimes manage to hear what the players were saying to one another.

Right now, the guy on the other team was asking Skywalker, as they circled each other menacingly, if he really wanted to fight. 

"Yeah, you fuckin' goof! Let's fuckin' go!" was the answer he got, before Anakin started to swing.

You knew he was right-handed, but the fact was that he could use both of his fists to deliver beatings with equal impact and skill. That was exactly what he did as he threw a series of unrelenting punches into the head of the guy who'd pissed him off. The other player's helmet crashed to the ice, and that was when you were sure the fight was nearly over... but, Anakin's opponent tonight was unusually persistent. 

He hit back, and he hit back _hard_ , shocking you by putting his fist into the side of your favourite enforcer's jaw with unexpected enthusiasm. Skywalker had a reputation for beating the shit out of guys, and when he started a fight, he was just about always the one to finish it, too. Most other players knew to be cautious of him; the ones who weren't typically regretted their lack of foresight not long after meeting his knuckles. 

This one, though... 

"No! Anakin, what the fuck! Don't let him pull that shit on you!"

The other guy, to your immense surprise, had somehow gained the upper-hand. You weren't used to seeing Anakin's own helmet come off, but it had clattered to the ice, and the man he'd challenged was now hitting him back; pummelling the his beautiful, blonde head while he pulled him close by the collar of his sweater.

Anakin tried to break free, but just couldn't seem to make it work: He struggled and swung and made several valiant attempts at coming back out on top, but the fact seemed to be that— this time, anyway— he was tragically outmatched. 

Finally, that jackass referee whose negligence had given Anakin cause to start the fight to begin with glided over to the pair; stood by them, expressionless, while the opposing player landed one final, crushing blow. 

Anakin fell to the ice. First his knees hit the surface, and then his bare hands. It was only now that you had the opportunity to notice just how badly he'd been beat-up: His mouth and nose were both bleeding profusely; you could have sworn you'd seen him spit a tooth out onto the ice on his way down. Angry, bright-red stains marred both the playing surface and his jersey, one of his eyes was already swelling shut, and it looked almost like someone had stuck his nose onto his face sideways for how badly mashed-up it was. 

"No!" you protested uselessly from behind the glass. "What the fuck was that, ref?!"

You did not, of course, receive an answer. As the incompetent linesman led the winner of the fight coolly off to the penalty box, one of the other players from Anakin's team skated up to him. The back of his jersey read 'KENOBI', and you knew him as a quick, quiet scorer who almost never started shit the way Skywalker did. You couldn't hear what he was saying as he leaned down to check on his teammate, but in short time he'd helped the injured enforcer to his feet. 

"It's okay!" you shouted as the pair skated by you, giving Anakin a thumbs-up. "You'll get him next time!" You didn't know him except to watch him play, of course, but he had been your favourite player for as long as he'd been on the team. You loved how brash he was in spite of his obvious finesse when it came to skating; admired his ceaseless willingness to defend his teammates from unwarranted aggression. 

He even sometimes scored, and every time he did, you were proud to stand up and show everyone behind you in the stands his name and number— 66— sewn onto the back of the hockey sweater you wore to every single game. His shot was like a lightning bolt; fast and hard, and even when the puck didn't go into the net for him, he always managed to make the opposing goaltender seem nervous.

On top of all of that, he was relentlessly beautiful. Hockey players weren't usually valued for their looks, of course, and his play alone would have endeared you to him regardless of his appearance. That being said, he certainly was lots of fun to look at; even with one or two missing teeth and a smattering of fading facial scars, you always loved to see him with his helmet off (unless he was getting beaten up the way he'd been beat up tonight). 

The rest of the game went well, at least. Anakin's team had already been up by three; you wished, now, that he hadn't opted to fight. It wasn't as if they'd been in any danger of losing, and the way he had left the ice looking so defeated broke your heart just a little bit. There'd been rumours of his impending retirement the previous season, simply due to his having suffered so many head injuries. He'd surprised everyone by coming back, and while you did love watching him mete out the types of punishments for which he was most well-known, you mostly just wanted him to be okay.

You might never have actually met him, but the fact was that you were quite attached to Anakin Skywalker. His safety was your primary concern, particularly after having witnessed the manner in which he'd left the game tonight: Head down, clearly dazed, and uncharacteristically wobbly on his skates.

At least he'd be well taken care of, you thought.

...

The noises were jarring in the emptiness of the parking lot. There had been a ridiculously long wait to use the bathroom following the game; besides that, you'd waited for several minutes in a different line-up altogether in the hope of getting an autograph. (The line had been mostly comprised of children; after all, this was far from the NHL... but, you'd still been happy to be a part of it.) It had ended up being a fruitless endeavour; Anakin had not appeared alongside his teammates, and you'd left empty-handed after realizing that your favourite guy was nowhere to be seen. You supposed that made sense to you; it was probably better for him to rest after what had happened on the ice, anyway. 

You hoped against hope that he'd be back to play in the next game.

"Hey, you okay?" you asked, because the sounds you'd been hearing in the lot just so happened to have been those of a man coughing and vomiting.

"I— I'm— _fine._ I'm fine. G-go _away."_

Jeez. "Just figured I'd check and see if you're okay," you said to the hunched-over figure. He was kneeling between one of the outer walls of the arena and a car, presumably his. "If you had too much to drink, I can call a cab for you." You weren't about to judge; it was easy to get too drunk during a game. The concession stands didn't sell liquor, but it was common enough for people to sneak it in.

"It's... _ugh..._ it's alright. Just... _go."_ He seemed to be finished puking, at least, but he was still crouched down on the ground, supporting himself with one arm against the brick wall.

"I don't think you should drive," you ventured carefully. "Maybe you could just let me—"

 _"Why don't you just fuck off?"_ he asked belligerently, finally turning his head and rising (albeit unsteadily) to his feet.

You almost couldn't believe your eyes.

 _"Anakin?!"_

"What about me? Who the fuck are you?"

He looked absolutely terrible, but there he was: Anakin Skywalker, your favourite player, standing right in front of you. Even without skates, he was _tall_. His question was apt, but you didn't know what to say; not really. Blood was crusted all around his nose and mouth, that eye you'd noticed swelling up as he had left the game was quickly bruising, and his hair was an absolute mess— there was blood in it, too.

"I— well, I'm—"

 _"Do I know you?"_

"No! No, you don't know me, but I... well, I know _you."_ He looked both exasperated and confused by your response; that prompted you to turn around for the purpose of letting him see his own name and number on the back of the jersey you'd worn to the game. Once you were sure he'd taken it in, you faced him again and told him, "I love watching you play!"

Unexpectedly, he laughed. "Fuck off," he said. "You buy that thing at a thrift store? What'd you pay; thirty cents?"

"No!" you protested. "I bought it in the lobby, like, two years ago! _I can't believe the way you skate!"_

"Skate?" he scoffed. "They don't keep me on the fucking team because of the way I skate."

You supposed they didn't, but you weren't lying. You might have loved watching him fight, but he was skilled in a number of other aspects of the game, too. You appreciated him for just about everything he could do. "I like watching you wreck guys," you admitted, "but I also really do like just watching you play. Why else would I buy your jersey?"

"I don't fucking know," he said dismissively. "But— as you can see— _I'm fine._ Now, did you actually need something, or...?"

"You don't seem fine," you told him, eyeing the puddle of vomit behind him. "I figured maybe you needed a hand."

"All I need is to drive home, okay? I was just... catching my breath."

Quizzically, you raised an eyebrow. "'Catching your breath'?" Then, "I still don't think you should drive. Did the doctor say you could drive?" There was always a doctor waiting off-ice; hockey was an incredibly rough sport, especially at this level. 

"The doctor didn't say shit," was all he told you, before moving to open the driver's side door of the car. 

"I just—"

Without letting you finish, he got into the vehicle, and slammed the door shut. He sat down in front of the steering wheel; started up the engine. You could see his bag with his equipment sitting in the back seat. You were concerned, because you thought he was going to drive away... but, he didn't.

Anakin just sat, looking dazed as he stared out the front windshield. 

You waited... but, he still didn't do anything. 

Finally, you tapped on the glass. As if coming out of a trance, he turned his head; looked at you. Once he'd fumbled to find the button that rolled down the window, he asked you, _"What?"_

"I just don't think it seems like you should—"

"Are _you_ going to fucking drive me home?" he asked, obviously assuming that you'd be unwilling to do so. He clearly didn't understand just how much of a fan of his you really were.

"I wouldn't mind," you answered, trying to sound as casual as you possibly could. "I mean... if you'd let me."

He tilted his head at you, which appeared to hurt, because he winced. Besides that, he didn't look like he quite knew what to say. "I— _really?"_

"Really," you nodded. "For as many of your games as I've watched, I kind of feel like I owe you anyhow. I'll just take you to your house, and that's it— then, I'll leave. Okay?"

He seemed highly skeptical, but you knew that he was also in a lot of pain. "...Fine," he said after a long pause, and he shifted his body; awkwardly dragged himself over the console between the two front seats so that he was seated on the passenger's side of the car.

After hesitating yourself (although not for very long), you climbed in beside him. You adjusted the seat to suit your height, thought for a minute about how much it might end up costing to take a taxi back to the arena to retrieve your own car later on, and then you did what Anakin had been trying to do when he'd entered his brief fugue.

"Just tell me where to go," you said, and you began your journey out of the parking lot and away from the rink.

You couldn't quite believe you were actually driving Anakin Skywalker's car.

...

"You want anything from Timmies?" you asked. You'd pulled into the Tim Horton's parking lot with the intention of going through the drive-thru to grab a coffee— you could use one, and you suspected that Anakin might like something, too. He didn't answer, though, so as you pulled up in the direction of the little box through which you would normally shout your order, you looked over at him.

He was leaning against the car door with his head back, apparently passed out.

"...Anakin?" There was no time to wake him prior to ordering, however, and so you stuck your head out the window and ordered a large double-double for yourself, and a hot herbal tea for him (caffeine was no good following a concussion; you suspected he had one), along with a box of timbits. If you'd been knocked around the way he'd been tonight, after all, you could certainly see yourself wanting some timbits. Part of you thought that you should maybe drive him somewhere to see a doctor, but given your interaction outside the arena, you figured that would probably just piss him off.

Once you'd driven up to the window and exchanged a handful of loonies and quarters for what you'd ordered, you pulled into a space in the lot. You didn't know where you were supposed to be driving him, really; again, you didn't want to upset him by taking him anywhere other than the place he'd asked to go.

 _"Anakin,"_ you tried again, giving his arm a very gentle nudge.

"Huh? What?" Not without some effort, he sat up a bit taller in his seat. He rubbed his eyes, gave his head a shake, and tried to focus his vision on you. "Where the fuck are we?"

"I got us hot drinks," you told him, motioning toward the cup holder in the console. "You want some tea?"

He looked confused. "I— you did? I mean... sure. Sure, I guess." He picked up the one nearer to him, took a sip, and resumed staring out the front windshield. 

It felt like a long time passed before you finally asked, "Where am I taking you, anyway?"

"Home," was all he said in return.

"...Where is that?" You knew his stats, but you certainly didn't know where he lived.

He looked around, then; seemingly to try and discern just which Timmies it was that you'd driven him to. "It's... well, it's on the far side of town."

"Does it have an address?" 

"Of course it has a fucking address."

After staring at him expectantly for a few moments, you tried, "...Do you know what the address _is?"_

As it turned out, he didn't— not right this second, anyway. He told you so before making an attempt at fishing around in his pockets for his wallet. His address, he said, would be on his diver's license.

Suddenly, "Fuck!"

"What? What's wrong?"

He sighed. With a hint of embarrassment, "I must have left my wallet at the rink."

"Do you want me to go back so you can get it?"

"No, it'll be locked up by now." He set his drink back down and rested his head in his hands. After muttering a string of curse words to himself, he peered back over at you and apologized. He seemed upset with himself; not only for forgetting his wallet in the locker room, but for not being able to remember where he lived as well. He had no reason to be, you thought— if you'd been hit the way he'd been hit tonight, you probably wouldn't have been able to recall your own address, either.

"It's okay," you said reassuringly. "Is there someone I can call who would—"

"No! No, don't call anyone," he insisted. "If it makes it back to my coach that I can't remember where I fucking live, he's not going to let me finish the season. _I don't want to get fucking retired._ "

"They wouldn't retire you over—"

"Yes they fucking would." He picked up his tea again; after another sip he went on, "If you meant what you said about how much you like to watch me play, then you know this isn't the first time I've been beaten half to death."

"You win a lot more than you lose," you pointed out. That was still true, although even you had to admit that this hadn't been a spectacular season for Anakin Skywalker as far as fighting had been concerned. His reputation made him a frequent target of nasty hits into the boards, too; between that and getting punched in the head every other night, you supposed last year's rumours concerning his status on the team hadn't just been abstract musings. 

"Doesn't fucking matter," he said. He looked you in the eye; despite the dim lighting, his fresh facial injuries were obvious. "Do you realize how many concussions I've had?" He laughed at himself. "I have to go out to the parking lot just to fucking puke these days so management doesn't figure out my brain is turning to goddamn mush."

All of a sudden, you felt guilty for just how much you'd always liked to watch him fight. "You don't _have_ to play like that, you know," you suggested tentatively. You knew he could skate; knew he could shoot, too. You'd have been just as happy to watch him play clean as you had been to watch him play like a goon. You liked the fights, but you liked the game (and Anakin himself) a lot more.

"I don't know any other way to play," he shrugged, taking some more of his tea. "Anyway, everybody knows my time on that team is almost up. They only let me come back this year because they felt sorry for me— they know fucking guys up is all I'm good for."

"You're more than just a tough guy," you argued. "I see you out there every night; you—"

 _"Stop,"_ he told you. "Just stop, okay? I'm sorry you're stuck in a parking lot with me; if you want to take a cab back to the arena to get your car, it's fine. Just leave me in here and I'll sleep it off."

You replied incredulously, "I'm not going to leave you sitting in a Timmies parking lot alone in your car."

He seemed to become frustrated. "If I can't give you my address and the rink is fucking closed, I'm not sure what else you can—"

"Come back to my place," you interrupted, without even thinking about it. "Just for tonight. You can clean up your face, sleep on my couch, and drive yourself wherever you want as soon as you feel better."

He looked at you as though he thought you were crazy... or maybe just stupid. "You don't even know me."

That might have been technically true, but... "I'm wearing your name across my back," you said. Even if you really didn't know him, you sure knew enough _about_ him to want to help him, if you could.

Anakin sighed. "You're not going to go away, are you?" he asked, in a way that indicated to you that he wished you would.

"No," you told him. "Not like this."

"I must really look like shit tonight, eh?" He looked away from you; shook his head. Of course, doing that made him wince again. "Fine— fine; whatever you want. Just don't get pissed off when I end up puking on your carpet or some shit like that."

"My floors are made of polished hardwood— easy to clean."

He chuckled, thankfully, and then you started up the engine of his car once more, and commenced your journey. You didn't live far at all from where you'd been parked; you hoped Anakin could manage to keep himself awake for the entirety of the drive.

You put the box of timbits you'd ordered beside his coffee on the console, because you thought that they might help.

...

Anakin did, graciously, remain conscious for the duration of the trip to your home. After pulling into the driveway, you'd tried to help him up the stairs; however, in spite of the fact that he was still rather unsteady on his feet, he refused your assistance. He _had_ grabbed that little box of timbits, though, which was just enough to make you smile. 

"The bathroom's at the end of the hall," you told him as you walked inside together. "You can use the shower if you want." It was fairly obvious that he hadn't taken one following the game; besides that, he'd just emptied the contents of his stomach into a parking lot, and some of it had almost certainly landed on him as opposed to the pavement.

"I think I need to sit down," he said, and he dragged himself over to your sofa, where he deposited himself, along with the timbits. He let himself close his eyes for a few moments before opening them again, holding up the box, and saying "Thanks."

"I like the ones with the jelly in the middle," you told him irreverently, as you took off your jersey and hung it on a hook by the door. (You'd had another sweater on underneath it; the arena tended to be chilly, at least for spectators.)

"I like the ones with sprinkles," he replied. Then, of the jersey, "I still can't believe you fucking own that."

"I wear it to every game," you said. 

Maybe because he didn't know how to respond to that, he started rooting around in the little box; picked out a timbit covered in tiny, round, colourful sprinkles. They were supposed to taste like birthday cake, apparently. He popped it into his mouth, but either it renewed his nausea, or chewing simply hurt too much to do right now, and he set the box down onto the table beside the couch; closed his eyes again.

"I think," he told you after a minute or two had seemed to pass, "that I might have to take you up on that shower. I can smell my lunch on my fucking hair."

"No problem," you assured him. "Use whatever you want; if you need anything else, just let me know."

"All I need is soap and a towel."

You smiled. He was earnest; you liked it. "Okay," you said. "It's already there, in that case."

He smiled at you; it was the first time he'd done so. The fact that he was missing a tooth or two was disarmingly charming, somehow. "Thanks— again, I mean."

While you went off to find extra blankets and pillows for him to use on your sofa, he made his way slowly and carefully to the bathroom. Not long after he'd closed the door behind him, you heard the water turn on. Maybe he'd feel better after he got cleaned up.

You were glad he'd opted to come with you as opposed to sleeping it off in his car... even, of course, if you hadn't actually given him all that much of a choice.

...

You'd just started to be able to detect the scent of your favourite soap from the end of the hallway when you heard a loud, heavy _thud._ "You alright in there?" you called from where you'd been standing, having just finished setting up a makeshift bed for your guest.

When you didn't receive an answer, you walked tentatively up to the bathroom door and knocked. "...Anakin?"

Still nothing.

You knocked a bit harder. "If you don't tell me you're alright, I'm just going to open the door for a second to make sure... okay?" That wasn't something you particularly wanted to do; you didn't want him to think you were weird, or just trying for an opportunity to fuck your favourite hockey player. All you'd wanted to do was help him out after having been injured; he might have been easy on your eyes, but hopping into bed with him was just about the last thing on your mind right now.

 _"Anakin!"_ you near-shouted, as you rapped on the door once again; this time more sharply.

When the sound of the water continued to be the only thing you could hear, you went ahead; turned the knob, and pushed the door open. You weren't quite prepared for what you saw.

"Jesus Christ!" you shouted, and you jogged over to the bathtub. The shower curtain had been pulled from the little plastic hooks which had been holding it to the rod, and beneath it was Anakin; apparently unconscious again, and now laying under a stream of hot water. After shutting it off, you knelt down beside the edge of the tub and grasped him by his shoulders; gave him as gentle a shake as you could. "Anakin! _Anakin, wake up!"_

He did, but barely. "Fuck," he muttered. "What the...?"

"You fell," you told him. "I think I should call a—"

 _"No,"_ he interrupted, as he forced his eyes back open. "No fucking doctors. If this gets back to the team, I'm fucked."

"Aren't you worried you'll... well... die?" you asked him, leaning over the side of the tub to try and at least heave him into a seated position. He was as hard as a brick, and felt as heavy as a bag of rocks to you. On his chest and shoulders, he sported a number of bruises in various stages of healing. Again, you hadn't possessed an ulterior motive in bringing him here; however, you couldn't help but notice just how well-sculpted he really was underneath all that hockey gear you always saw him wearing.

"If I can't finish the season and renew my contract," he said as he came-to, "then I might as well just fucking die."

He must not have been thinking straight. "That's ridiculous," you told him. "Anyway, nobody plays hockey forever— who do you think you are, Jaromír Jágr?" He'd played in the NHL into his late forties... but, he had certainly not played the way Anakin did; not every single night, anyway. 

"Believe me, I know I'm a lot more like John Scott," he confessed, referencing the infamous enforcer, "except I don't exactly have an engineering degree to fall back on." At least he hadn't said Derek Boogaard— fighting had _killed_ him. Anakin grunted; tried to push himself up so that he could sit a bit taller, but his hand slipped on the slick surface of the tub. You didn't let go of him; not yet. "You want to know what I do when there's no hockey?" 

You had to admit, you were curious. "What _do_ you do when there's no hockey, Anakin?"

"I push boxes in a warehouse for thirteen bucks an hour, and I hate every goddamn second of it."

Oh. "Well," you offered, "I'm sure there's something better for you out there than that. You just have to—"

He cut you off with, "What I have to do is get the fuck out of this bathtub. I know I'm a piece of shit for asking, but do you think you could help me?" 

"Sure," you said. "I'm sorry." You realized that you shouldn't have tried to give him advice; not right now... so, instead of doing that, you got your arms around him as best you could, and began to help him stand. It was awkward, particularly given the fact that he was entirely naked... but, you still didn't mind offering your assistance. You were more glad than ever that you hadn't left him in his car.

Once he was back on his feet, you gripped his arm, and he used you to steady himself as he stepped out of the shower. You shared a long, uncomfortable moment as he stood before you unclothed; it was a bit difficult for you to gather your thoughts, simply because you'd never expected to see him this way. Again, he was unbelievably well-defined; from his chest to his stomach, right on down to his legs. There wasn't a part of him that looked as if you couldn't have bounced a dime off of it.

"Do you think you could maybe pass me a towel?" he asked, pulling you out of your own trance. 

"A... towel? Oh! A towel! Yes— yes, here you go," you said, pulling one from off the rack directly beside you, and handing it over. 

"Thanks," he replied, and he wasted little time in wrapping it around his waist.

"I'm sorry I don't really have anything for you to wear," you told him apologetically.

"This is fine for now. As long as you're not... I mean, as long as it doesn't bother—" 

"Not at all. You want a hand getting back to the couch?"

Once again seeming a bit embarrassed, he told you, "Just... I don't know. Make sure I don't fall and bash my head against the wall, if you can."

You nodded. "I can do that." 

So, you did: You walked Anakin safely back to the sofa; sat him down in just about the same place he'd planted himself when he had first come in. He was clean now, at least; the blood had been washed off of his face, and there wasn't a trace of vomit in his newly-dampened hair. 

"Better?" you asked, sitting down next to him.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think so."

"Should I let you sleep, or no?"

"Not yet," he said, indicating that he likely still felt either nauseous or unsteady, or both. "Anyway, the shower sort of woke me up. You mind if I just sit here for a while? Until I start to feel tired again?"

"Not at all— sit for as long as you need to." You paused. "Is it okay if I sit with you?" You'd leave him alone if it wasn't okay; you didn't want to bother him.

"It's fine. Actually, some company would be nice. Normally I do this by myself."

"Do what?" 

"Sit and wait for my head to stop hurting."

"Oh."

So, you sat— sat in complete silence together, for what felt like a very long time. He closed his eyes and put his head back, but you could tell he was still awake. You, in turn, tried not to stare at his chest or stomach. You felt a bit ashamed of yourself for thinking about him that way when he was in this state, but it truly was difficult to prevent. The bruises around his eye and nose were beginning to darken; you offered him an ice pack, but he turned it down.

Eventually, he did pass out again; when that happened, he fell to the side, and wound up leaning against your arm. You let his head rest on your shoulder, because he finally looked peaceful, and you were incredibly reluctant to disturb him. 

You didn't notice yourself falling asleep alongside him; in fact, you only realized you'd done exactly that when you woke up next to him, several hours later.

...

"I'm sorry," was the first thing he said as the sun's earliest rays began to pour in through the windows. The second thing was, "I didn't mean to pass out on you," and you knew he meant, quite literally, _on_ you. Still, he didn't move; not right away.

"It's okay," you told him. "How do you feel now?"

He took a moment to think, head still resting on your shoulder. Turning his gaze up toward you, he answered, "Better than I did last night." Then, a bit sheepishly, "...Thanks."

You smiled. "It was no trouble at all. I'm just glad I could help."

"No one's ever quite done that for me," he confessed, sitting up a bit straighter. "Not for a long time, anyway."

"Done what for you?"

"Taken care of me when I was hurt."

That made you feel a bit sad. "I'm sorry," you said.

"Don't be." He waited a moment before offering hesitantly, "If there's anything I can do to make up for—"

"You don't have to do anything for me," you assured him. You debated whether or not you should say what you were thinking; decided to go ahead and tell him, "It was nice getting to spend some time with you." It really was— you weren't any less of a fan of his now for the experience you'd had helping him out the night before. If anything, you liked him more now than you ever had.

He laughed loudly, but then he winced because laughing still hurt. "You're awfully nice," he chuckled, rubbing his eyes with his hand. "I know it's not easy to put up with a jackass like me."

"You're not a jackass," you said, noticing that the two of you were still incredibly close to one another. "I like you— I've always liked you."

With a smile, "I might not have known you before yesterday, but I'm pretty sure I like you, too."

This time, you were the one who laughed; however, you weren't quite sure what to say.

When it became apparent to him that you were at a loss for words, he ventured, "There has to be _something_ I can do to thank you for what you did."

"I didn't do anything," you told him. You really didn't feel as if you had; all you'd done was share your couch, the way you saw it. 

"You don't realize just how much fucking time I spend by myself these days, do you?" he asked, which you hadn't expected. You also hadn't anticipated him raising one of his hands to touch your face, but he did that anyway, too. You felt your cheeks flush as he leaned in a bit more closely and continued, "It was nice not to be alone for a while— especially after a game like the one I played last night."

"I liked getting to know you a little bit," you admitted, hoping you didn't sound too much like a dumb fan.

"In that case," he suggested, "maybe you'd let me pay you back for helping me with some more of my time— time where I'm not puking and falling down in your shower."

You laughed; you couldn't help it. "You know I'll be at your next game," you reminded him, thinking about the jersey hanging by the door; the one with his name and number.

"That's not exactly what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?" You thought you might know, but you didn't want to assume anything.

He sighed as though he were exasperated; much like he had before, in his car... but, this time he smiled. "This is what I mean," he said, and in spite of his still-swollen lip, he kissed you.

You closed your eyes, and kissed him back.

"Do you understand now?" he asked, when you finally pulled away. 

"I think I do."

"Good," he nodded, and you could have sworn you saw his face take on its own pink tinge. "Will you come out with me tomorrow night, then? For dinner?"

"If you feel up to it," you said. You were still worried about his head, although he did, indeed, seem to be doing a lot better now than he had been the night before.

"I do feel up to it," he promised. "I really, _really_ do."

You leaned in to kiss him again after that, both because it had felt wonderful to do the first time, and because— yet again— you weren't quite sure what you ought to say. You tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was still only wearing a towel.

The rest of the time you took waking up with Anakin that day was wonderful; better than you'd ever anticipated following the events of the previous night. You were still concerned about him, of course: About his next game, about his hockey career, and about the way he seemed to feel about himself. Above all, you wished he'd concede to seeing a doctor about his most recent apparent concussion.

Somehow, though, you were still mostly just happy to have met him; _really_ met him, as opposed to just watching him hurt and be hurt through a thick panel of glass. 

Anakin Skywalker might have been your favourite hockey-playing tough guy... but, he was something else to you now, too; something more than that.

You couldn't wait to spend some more time with him, in the interest of finding out what that 'something else' really was.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I absolutely loved writing that. Again, sorry if you're not into hockey, but I definitely am, and I (clearly) haven't been to a game in way too long. Thanks, COVID.


End file.
